‘Madame de Rochemont,’ said the man.
Alexa froze. Madame de Rochemont. Guy’s wife.
Despite the heat of the afternoon, a chill went through her. A chill she forced to subside. She had not spent all that time away, purging herself of the past, only to be felled at the first reminder of what was no longer a part of her life, a part of her. But her insides churned for all her resolution.
He had a wife.
It was done—Guy was married.
Married to that poor girl—the one who’d looked the antithesis of ‘radiant’ at the prospect. With good reason. Alexa’s mouth thinned. Louisa von Lorenz had known what kind of man she was marrying. What kind of marriage she was in for. What kind of husband she was getting.
The adulterous kind.
Alexa’s thoughts were like knives. But why on earth should Guy’s wretched new wife have asked for a meeting with her? What for?
How does she even know of my existence?
And how could she possibly know I’d be walking along this pavement today?
‘How,’ demanded Alexa frigidly, ‘does Madame de Rochemont come to know of my whereabouts?’
The man was unfazed by the question. Maybe it was a familiar one to someone in his line of work. ‘When your tenants moved out, Miss Harcourt, your flat was put under surveillance on the chance you might be returning shortly. As indeed you have.’
Alexa’s mouth twisted. Of course. Guy had bought the lettings agency, hadn’t he? When you moved in the stratospheric circles that the de Rochemont family moved in such things were unexceptional. Just like hiring people like this man to wait until she showed up.
But how Guy’s wife had found her was inconsequential—the question was why on earth did Louisa de Rochemont want to meet her?
Cold went through her suddenly as realisation struck.
Does she think I’m going to take up with Guy again now that I’m back in London? Is that what she fears?
Had that poor girl somehow found out—or been told—just who the last woman was that her husband had had a liaison with before he’d become engaged? Had she then, knowing what her husband was going to be like, speculated that he might well carry on after their engagement and their marriage with the same woman he’d been seeing before?
The chill in Alexa’s veins deepened. Had all this security surveillance and private investigation shown up a photo of her? It was more than likely. And then—she swallowed horribly—then Louisa would recognise her from that evening at the charity gala.
She’ll know that she spoke to me—will she think that I knew all along who she was?
But, whether Louisa had seen Alexa’s photo or not, Alexa knew that one thing was clear—she was not going to have Guy’s bride think the worst of her. Whoever was providing Guy’s adulterous sex, it was not her! And any attempts, by any of them, to subject her to surveillance and investigation could stop right now! She was clear of Guy de Rochemont and she would stay that way. She would not be sucked back anywhere near that maelstrom. Wasn’t she doing everything she could to be free of it all?
She looked straight at the man. ‘Where is your client?’ she demanded.
‘Madame de Rochemont is currently in London, Miss Harcourt,’ he answered, in his professionally neutral tone. ‘She has indicated that it would suit her to see you this afternoon.’
London? Well, that was convenient. And so was getting this over and done with right now. Another thing she could put behind her.
‘Very well.’ She pulled open the rear door of the car and climbed in. The man got into the driving seat and restarted the engine. The car set off, heading out onto Ladbroke Grove, and thence towards Holland Park. Cutting across Kensington, it made its way into the pristine, elegant squares of Belgravia, pulling up outside a vast white-stuccoed terraced house set on an elegant square with a private garden in the centre. It was a location where, Alexa knew, only the richest of the rich could afford to live. But then, Guy de Rochemont was in that ultra-exclusive echelon.
I knew he was rich, but I hardly saw it, Alexa thought as she got out of the car. So was it really so surprising that a man like that, so blessed by the gods—not just with vast wealth and the highest social position, but by incredible good-looks and searing masculine attraction—should have thought that she, or any woman, his wife included, would do whatever he wanted of them, without question or demur or objection? Would such a man not naturally have a natural arrogance that expected others to comply with his every wish, every desire?
Like the way she’d just rolled over into his bed the moment he’d indicated he wanted her there…
But even as she thought that memory intervened. Not the memory of Guy casually informing her that he’d bought a lettings agency as he might buy a bar of chocolate, simply in order to locate her, or informing her that she had been selected to provide his sexual amusement and compensate for his being required to marry a teenager for dynastic purposes, or demanding to know what the hell she thought she was playing at by objecting to his plans for her.
Not that Guy.
The Guy who took me to bed—breathtakingly, wonderfully, amazingly! The Guy who held me afterwards, slept with me, woke with me. Ate with me, smiled at me, talked with me
about art and history and culture. Who would sit and check his e-mails on his laptop, or look through business papers, while I watched a TV documentary or read a book. Nothing much, nothing extraordinary.